


What are the limits?

by 17fingertips



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Bank Robbery, Eventual Romance, Kidnapped John, M/M, Slash: Romance Without Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17fingertips/pseuds/17fingertips
Summary: Sherlock has 8 hours to rob a bank valt and deliver it's content. If he fails, John dies.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock watched John absently sip a warm cup of tea as he watched a very dull program on the telly. Sherlock was forever baffled at the fact that such an interesting man could entertain himself with such boring and uninteresting subject matter. 

John himself was the opposite of boring. John was the only person interesting enough to bring Sherlock back from the bleak Land of Boredom. John was the only person, murder would also do the trick.

When Sherlock first met John, he saw John's limp and tremor, and conected it to PTSD and war, but he couldn't make sense of the man underneath. His whole life Sherlock had been able to connect information displayed on a person to the life they led and the type of person they were. But John was different. On that first day John's clothes and shaving cream told Sherlock he was a man who liked a simple life; on that first day the look in John's eye and the flash of excitement that played accross his face when Sherlock layed all the historical facts about John on the table, told Sherlock that he was a man who loved danger and the unexpected. Sherlock was never wrong, both these deductions where correct, which only made John Watson's maze of confusing persona even more intriguing to Sherlock. 

So now Sherlock sat in his thinking chair, knees tucked up to his chest and fingers tented under his nose. And what he thought about was John. John was Sherlock's saving grace. He was the only thing separating Sherlock from the Land of Boredom, and the drug overdose suiside that would surely claim Sherlock's life if he was stuck there for too long. John was complex, and confusing and an insane adrenaline junkie, but there he sat like a common house wife, watching telly. 

Nothing made Sherlock as angry as watching something wonderfully confusing and fascinating go to waste. And this was sertanly a waste. John was watching telly, for Christ's sake! The only thing that kept Sherlock from endless boerd oblivion was numbing it's senses with pop culture, media produced, propaganda! It didn't make sense! But that's what Sherlock loved about John. That was the part of John that kept Sherlock from falling off the edge. The paradox of John Watson, the most self contradicting person the world had ever, or would ever, know. When he thought of this.....this...... contradicting paradox, he was never bored. However it could only last for so long. Eventually it became to much for him to handle.

"Hey! What was that for?" John questioned angrily when Sherlock lunged forward in one fluid motion and yanked the telly cord out of the wall, causing the screen to go dead. 

"I have had enough of watching you waste your time and miniscule intelligence on exceptionally dull television programs. Do something else John. Your driving me insane." 

"I'm driving you insane? I think you hit that milestone long ago. I'm sorry that you don't like telly but I don't see why you sit there when I watch it. You could be doing other things like examining bloody tooth decay or something." 

Sherlock siged. John simply didn't understand. He cold easily have been ten blocks away at a crime scene, looking at blood and information, and the fact that John was wasting away at the hands of the telly would still drive Sherlock insane.

"Do something else John. Anything else. Go and swoon over pitiful and boring women, or do a crossword, or Sudoku, or go and get take away or...or..go skydiving or.......something! Just don't watch telly. I can't bare you watching telly.

"Why? Why can't I watch telly?" John sounded genuinely confused.

"BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR TELLY!" Sherlock exploded. He spun round in a circle, his hands pulling at his hair in frustration. John smiled at his o it burst. This only confused Sherlock. "Why are you smiling?" He rumbled in his baritone voice. Sherlock stoped all movement and fixed his eyes on John. Normaly John didn't really enjoy it when Sherlock got mad. What was different this time?

"Because,"John explained " I think, on some screwed up, higher level, you just complemented me." The smile turned into a childish grin on John's face, and he beamed up at Sherlock. Sherlock allowed the corners of his mouth to raise ever so slightly. How was it that someone so small and simple, could be so comex and confusing? Sherlock was forever baffled.

"Ok" John said finaly braking the happy silence. "Let's do something. Its nearly 4pm and we have some time to burn before I go and buy take away while you stare at the menu and sulk." John looked expectantly up at Sherlock.

"I do not sulk." Sherlock said with distaste. "Ohh yes you do." John corrected with a smile. "But anyway, what do you want to do? As long as it's not terribly illegal, I'm game."

Sherlock thought this over in his head. What did he want to do? He wanted to have a good time with the person who was so far from boring. Well, a good time for him would be a bonus. He wanted to see the man who was so far from boring, having a good time doing things that where not dull and brain numbing. He wanted them to have non-boring fun. Not the normal sort of fun, the sort of fun that was specific to him and John. 

What would that be? What was a not incredibly illegal pass time that the two of them could have fun with?

 

Sherlock thought of the time he had gone to Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a sheet, and how John had found this quite an amusing excipad. He thought of the time that he and John had laughed untill their stomachs where sore in an abandoned tube compartment that contained an extreemly powerful bomb. He thought of the night he and John had been at the public swimming pool, dim and full of shadows, and how they had laughed after the world's only Consulting Criminal had threatened Sherlock's life. 

That was their sort of fun . Nerve wracking, adrenaline pumping, at times life threatening, sort of fun. How could he come up with a pass time that would match that sort of fun? He thought of the first day he met John, running on the rooftops of apartments and other buildings on a rural backstreet looking for a murder victims suit case. That had been fun. Maybe he could do that again with John. Maybe it could be fun again. Maybe. Probably not though. 

"John, I need a good children's running game. Preferably one with a slightly interesting objective. And don't say tag. I hate tag."

John gave him a confused look. "Um- I don't see how-" Sherlock cut him off.

" Dont question John, just answer. Give me a children's running game." John was confused, but willing to co-operate.

" Um.... I dunno....Red Rover. I played it alot when I was a little kid and I loved it." Sherlock shook his head

"No, no and no. Not red rover. Another game. Not red rover." Sherlock became very upset at the mention of the game. John wondered why. 

" Ok then.... uhh.....Capture the Flag?" His voice had a questioning note to it. Sherlock's eyes lit up. 

"Yes" He called "yes that's it! That can work."Sherlock then suddenly bent down to John's eye level, " We are going to play capture the flag on rural rooftops and the only rule is to not toch the ground"

"Like I said,I'm game, as long as it's not extremely illegal. But if we are going to do capture the flag, we need to do it at night, with glow sticks. The propper way." Sherlock was not expecting that response. "Another day" he said passively and continued thinking. It didn't take long for him to think up a new idea.

" We could dig up a corpse from an old grave yard and deduce the cause of death." Sherlock new John would not sat yes, but he thought it was worth a try. 

"Remember that 'terribly illegal' thing. Diging up a buried corpse falls under the illegal category. If you get the permission of the dead person's family, then yes, but not before." Sherlock siged. John had acctualy responded to that better then he had expected. But then again, the majority of things about John where unexpected. 

Sherlock decided to give this whole "having fun" thing one last chance. " We could ride the top of a tube car through London and see how far we get without getting caught, or, just to prove that your extreemly low intelligence is still intact, we could go to the shooting range and I could watch you shoot." 

John thought for a moment about how much his friend needed relief from the ever present feeling of boredom. If riding the top of the tube helped.....so be it. On the other hand, there was no way in hell he was going to a shooting range with Sherlock Holmes. No way! That was never going to happen. John's answer greatly confused Sherlock. No one in the world could confuse Sherlock, except John. John was a mystery.

" Yes to the first one but no to the second. I'll ride the top of the tube, but I am not going anywhere near a shooting range with you."

Sherlock took a few seconds to consider this answer. It did not make any sense or conform to any logic. Wasn't a shooting range safer than riding the top of a tube? What where John's standards? What was John's black and white? Or was the world to him, as it was to Sherlock? A Thousand shades of grey, with a slight splinter of black or white on each end. Sherlock let some of his uncertainty translate into words. 

" John," Sherlock asked, his brow slightly furrowed in confusion. "What are your limits?" 

This question took John by suprise, and his gaze fell to the floor for a few, very long, moments. Slowly he raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's, and he shook his head slightly. 

"I don't know."

It was then that John noticed the purple bags under Sherlock's eyes, and the lines lack of sleep had left on his forehead. He noticed how Sherlock's angular face looked more sharp than normal, and how his checks seemed slightly more hollow. This worried John. John had forced Sherlock to eat that morning, and the night before, so it was not hunger that plagued his friend. It was sleep deprivation. John realised he must make Sherlock go to sleep. 

" Sherlock " John said, breaking a silence he didn't notice was there. "Can you do something for me?" Sherlock looked skeptical. " What is it?" He asked, hesitant to say yes. "Will you go to sleep?" Sherlock looked at John as if he had asked him to cook dinner.

" No John, I cannot sleep on command. It simply doesn't work that way." 

"Fine then" said John picking up the telly remote. "I'll watch telly untill you do." 

John spent the next hour watching dull and pointless telly, making a point of watching all the adverts, so as to particularly annoy Sherlock. Sherlock watched John like a hawk, inwardly hating the telly and all the programs and the Stupid, STUPID adverts. Finaly at 5:23, Sherlock gave up. 

" Fine. FINE! Have it yor way. I'll go sleep and waist time that could be used on a variety of more useful tasks. Have it your way John! Have it your way." Sherlock stalked off to his room, his curly mess of hair seeming to mirror his annoyance, mumbling something about unimportant information overload. 

John smiled to himself. He loved living with Sherlock. Life was never boring.


	2. Hour 1

Sherlock slept longer than he had expected. When he awoke with early morning sun steeling it's way through the blackout curtains that draped the one window in his bedroom, he tightened his face with the frustration that he had slept that long. He hated sleeping. Almost more than he hated John watching telly. Sleeping was a waist of very valuable time, it was a chance for the mind to grow soft and weak, it was a reason to give up the days tasks. He despised it more than an out of tune violin. He would give up (or try to) science for a whole month if it ment that he would never have to sleep again. 

The only time Sherlock slept was when his body got the better of him. When he passed out from from lack of sleep while siting in his thinking chair. It had been a good 13 months since he had gone to bed of his own free will, and he was angry that John had got him to do it, even though he grudgingly and silently thought that maybe he did feel a little better. 

Sherlock guessed by the angle the sun light was entering into the room that it was about 6:40-ish am, and that he had sleep long enough. He turned his long body sideways, the duvet bunching up around his skinny torso. He stepped out of bed and walked to the door. He pulled on his navy blue dressing gown, shedding the pyjmas underneeth it. He opened his door that led out to the rest of the flat, and walked out into the strong but not harsh light of morning. 

"John" Sherlock called through the house, taking his place at his usual morning chair. "John?" He put his feet up on the coffee table and waited for John to emerge from the foot of the stairs and say some cheery morning salutation. It didn't happen. "Okay John you where right. I needed to sleep. You where right! Im sorry. I was being damaging to my body" Sherlock had recived many lectures about his unhealthy eating and sleeping habits, and John would sometimes even give Sherlock the silent treatment to get an apology out of him if he was not eating or sleeping enough. Today however this was not the case. 

Sherlock spent the next 15 minuts calling John's name and waiting for him to emerge at the bottom of the stairs. He paced around the room worried that he had unintentionally ticked John off in some foreign way. When he finaly lost patience, Sherlock crossed the room and walked up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the top he opened the door that let into John's room and walked right in. 

The room smelled like John, it looked like John. There was a slight dip in the floor board just as he stepped through, and the boared protested this new weight with a low groaning sound. If John were a room this would be him. It had an army green duvet bed spread that was thrown to the side, and a laundry hamper at the far end of the room. He had an oak desk and an oak wardrobe, although the colour of the oak was a semi tone different. There was one window at the back end of the room, leading to a fire escape ladder. There was a neat stack of medical books piled on the side of his night stand, and his old walking cane propped up in the corner.

John was clearly not in this room, and although it was not uncommon for him to be up at this time of morning, he rarely left the flat untill after 9 o'clock. Sherlock breathed in a large breath as he left the warm smelling room, and decended the stairs. He loved John's room. It was the second best thing besides murder, John being the first. When Sherlock re-entered the sitting room he flopped himself down in his favorite chair. He pressed his back firmly up against one of the chair arms, and let his legs hang haphazardly over the other. 

The coffee table in the middle of the room held Sherlock's mobile. It also had a cup of cold tea and some flyers from yesterdays newspaper. The cup of cold tea shook in its saucer when Sherlock's mobile buzzed, simultaneously making a few consecutive poping noises. He picked it in the hopes that it was John.

NUMBER I.D HIDDEN

Sherlock was slightly disappointed that it was not John, but was intrigued by the mistery of the unknown number, so he opened his mobile to find 4 unread messages.

\- Good morning Mr. Holmes. Did you have a good sleep? Where there visions of sugar plums dancing in your head? No? Okay moving on. I realy do find it charming the way you listen to John. John is like The Sherlock Wisperer, I swear! John says something and after a little feeble fighting, you listen. It's like he's a snake charmer and your the snake. He told you to go to sleep, you went to sleep. Just like that. No tranquilizer needed. Now that part was a mistake. You see, once you where asleep, there was no waking you, and I could just walk right in there and take John. For the time being he is fine, I promice.

Sherlock became instantly furious when he read that this unknown person had stolen John......his John. John was Sherlock's own tiny sliver of beauty and strangeness in a world full of dull, grey people. How dare anyone take that away from him? Sherlock then went on to read the second text.

-So, I assume that you want John back. You can have John back, don't worry about that. I have no use for him. The thing you should be worried about is weather you will get him back dead, or alive.  
I have a job that needs to be done. If you get the job done, you will get John back. If you don't, you will recive John's body. Are you ready for the task? Its not quite in your usual field, but I think you can do it. You must rob a bank. The Bank of England on threadneedle St. to be exact. Now don't freaked out, it's acctualy quite simple. You dont have to rob the whole thing, just private vault number 438.  
You must break into the vault -it's password and fingerprint protected- and steal it's content. Then you must text me a picture of it so I know that you have it. Once I recive the picture I will send you a location to swap goods at. You will give my the vault content and I will give you John. Its realy quite simple. And plus, you're Sherlock Holmes, how hard could it possibly be?

The truth was that Sherlock had acctualy thought about what would be required to rob a bank many times. It really wouldn't be that hard. All it would take is a few stolen access cards and a few small scale explosives. He could do it. This was a piece of cake. He read the next text with a mix of anger and exitement. 

-I only have one rule regarding how your rob the bank. It must not be a public affair. You must enter, raid, and exit the building without raising any questions or setting off any alarms. It is understandable that in a half our or so after you leave they find damage of some sort, but you must exit the building without anyone relizing what you are doing. My only other rule is fairly obvious. Don't contact the authorities about this little trade off. If you do, John dies.  
There are also some thing you should know. I am a clean man I don't like to get my hands dirty. So I have my men do it for me. You are now - for the time being- one of my men. However some of my other men do not like John as much as you, and are itching to get a little blood out of him. I can not restrain them so I must warn you, there will be some physical and possibly mental injury to John upon his return. I apologize in advance for the harm inflicted upon John. That is realy all you kneed to know. The more time you waist, the more John gets hurt. So work quickly, Sherlock Holmes. And good luck!

Hot blood and anger rose to Sherlock's face. Someone was hurting John. Someone was torturing his John....for fun! The thought was sickening. It was revolting. It made his blood boil in his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip slightly to stop from throwing something. How could they. How could they hurt John? Didn't they see what he was? HE WAS BEAUTIFAL! John was the most beautiful human being on planet earth and they where hurting him for fun. How could they do it? How could they stomach it? Sherlock was angry and needed some time to breath. He quickly read over the final text and then took some time to think the whole thing through.

-Oh, I almost frogot. You have 8 hours starting now to exit the bank with it's content in a bag. If you fail to compleet your task, I will let my men kick the living shit out of your friend John. Thats a nice way to die...don't you think? With a steel toe boot in the gut. Once again I tell you.....Good Luck.

Sherlock ran the information over in his head.  
\- 8 hours  
\- Password and fingerprint protected  
\- Not public  
\- No authorities  
\- Bank of England  
\- Vault 438  
\- Now only 7 hours and 47 minuts

Sherlock had a plan. It was simple really. Fool proof if he did it right. People where stupid. Stupid enough to get married and have children. There was no reason they wouldn't let this one slip right under there nose. It was a wonder people didn't rob banks more often. It was probably fear of the law that prevented it more than anything else. He did a few quick calculations in his head before he set to work. It was now 7:14. That gave him 7 hours and 46 minuts to spare. That meant he had to send the photo of the vault content by 3 o'clock. That meant that he could, if he played his cards right- and he always did- have John home before dark. Now that would be an amazingly successful day. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in one deep breath of mild sitting room air before setting to work. The first order of business was getting dressed. 

Sherlock walked with purpose to his bedroom and began dressing. He fished around indecisively in his wardrobe untill he pulled out a dark purple collared shirt. He quickly pulled it on allready half buttoned, and did the rest of the buttons up once the shirt was on his body. He then pulled on a pair of sleek black pants, and his black leather shoes were tied up just below the pant cuff. He sauntered out of his bedroom looking like a model, and only further enhanced this look by sliding on his long cottan coat, flipping up the collar, and adding a dark blue scarf on top.

Sherlock lightly ran down the stairs and out the front door. He held his sholders high as he emerged onto baker street and turned left, heading towards a darkened alley way. When he arrived at the mouth of the ally he only had to walk a short distance before he met one of his men from his homeless network. Sherlock in no suspicious manner handed a 10 pond note over to the middle aged man, and asked the man a question regarding the where-abouts of a certain woman. The moment the man gave his reply, Sherlock turned on his heel and exited the alley way. He walked over to the street corner and hailed a cab. When the car arrived, doors damp from rain, he slid into the back seat and gave the cabbie the adress of a woman he used to know. 

The woman's name was Maggie. She used to be a part of Sherlock's homeless network, but unlike most of his network, Maggie came into some money and got off the streets. She now lived 15 minutis away and made money by working at a local corner store. As a side job however, Maggie was a hacker, and was very skilled at the art. Sherlock allways vaguely envyed her for her tallent. He could hack into low security websites, and high security ones if he had the time, but Maggie could hack into even the most secure government archives without leaving a trace. Maggie owed Sherlock a favor or two, and Sherlock was sure she could get him the bank information that he needed. 

The cab wended through rain splattered streets, and grey clouds blocked the sun from the sky. It was dismal and bleak and there where hardly any people to be seen. Old newspapers where turning to pulp where they had been left on the streets and driven over by cars. The world looked like crumpled paper, wrinkled and stained.

Is this what the world is like without John? Sherlock thought to him self. Because if so, it is not worth living in. A flair of panic opened in his chest, but he quickly pushed it down and regained his composure. 

"Just five more minutes sir" the cabbie said in a friendly tone. "Is it a frinds house you're visiting?" Sherlock ignored the cabbies attampt at convorsation. The only thing he could think of was John. It wasn't worry that held Sherlock's thoughts captive, and it wasn't anger, or excitement either. It was the combination of the thrill that pumped in Sherlock veins when he had a problem to solve, and the anticipation of having John safe in his arms. The car pulled up to a small house in the suburbs of London, and Sherlock produced a small wad of cash before stepping out of the cab and into the deserted rural street. 

As Sherlock walked the short distance to the front door of Maggie's house, he hoped to god that she was home. He reached out to the rusted brass knocker, gave three decisive knocks, and waited for a response. He pulled out his mobile and checked the time. It was 7:39, maybe she was still asleep. He had 7 hours and 21 minuts before his time was up. He waited anxiously at the door for a few more moments, and was being to think she want home, when the door opened slightly with a creak, but was stoped by a chain keeping it closed. 

" Who's there?" A woman said through the small crack of the door in a low, annoyed voice.  
" Sherlock Holmes" Sherlock said in a monotone. There was a moment of fumbling chains that followed, then the door fully opened to reveal a woman in her mid 30s wearing a pink tank top and a pair of small, loose black shorts.

"Sherlock?" The woman asked, a hint of excitement in her voice betrayed her emotions. Like Sherlock she did not like to show her emotions, and like Sherlock she knew how to quickly push them out of her voice. When she next spoke her voice was so matter-of-fact, Sherlock wasn't sure if he had acctualy heard excitement at all. 

"I suppose you want to come in." She said, stepping back to clear the entrance of the door. "No one visits me for socializing, so I assume you are here for business."

"Your assumption is correct." Sherlock said in the same monotone voice as he passed through the door way and onto the welcome mat that lay on the threshold. "I do not socialize." The woman gave a curt knod to show she reciprocated Sherlock's feelings, and closed the door behind him.

The room Sherlock entered was cluttered and grey, not much to note about the space. There was a wooden set of hooks to hang your coat on, and a tall, ugly, turquoise piece of furniture that stood beside a closet. There where unimportant knick-knacks and various random items on every surface. The room was not one that anyone would want to linger in. 

Maggie led Sherlock through this room and down a long hall with walls covered by an old, white, floral wall paper. The hall passed a kitchen, and two bedrooms, and led to a small room at the back end of the house that surved as an office. This room, unlike the rest of the house, was clean and clear. There was no clutter or any mess at all. There was a tall desk made of dark wood with a glass top on the right hand wall of the room, and a set of black filing cabinets on to other. There was a window on the back wall with sunset orange curtains half parted over the view of a small back yard. There was a leather chair on one side of the desk and a rolling chair in wheels on the other. Maggie gestured for Sherlock to sit down in the leather chair and she herself took a seat in the other.

"So," she said, reaching over with one hand to turn on her computer "What brings you to me this early in the morning?" Maggie momentarily broke eye contact with Sherlock to type in a password for her computer, then turned her full attention back to Sherlock. Sherlock reclined in the over sized leather chair and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles with a sigh.

" I need the floor plans for The Bank of England, on Threadneedle St. and the bank number and code for a private vault. Are you capable of this?" Maggie appreciated Sherlock for his mannerisms and lack of bedside manner. She hated wasting time on small talk and on people who didn't have anything important to say. On this level, Maggie and Sherlock where very similar, and that was part of the reason they fit together well. 

"Yes." Maggie said, abruptly turning to her computer. "I am capable. I am more than capable. Give me 10 miniuts and I'll have your floor plans, and another 15 to get your codes. Is that good enough for you?" Sherlock checked the time on a clock that hung on the office walls. It was quarter too. Even though he grew impatient, and didn't want to waist time, Sherlock knew Maggie was the best hacker in London, and only an idiot would say no. "Yes Maggie that's good enough." Was all he said in reply. 

Maggie immediately turned back to her computer and set to work. She typed furiously into her keyboard, her long delicate fingers danced over the keys, like they where playing a game. Her eyes held a determined and focused look. Her lips parted slightly as she clawed her way through the heart of the internet in record time. Five minutes passed and then, while waiting for a security base code to be deactivated, Maggie turned to face Sherlock. "I normally don't care about other people's business, or have any desire to know why they need my service, but you have allways intrigued me, Sherlock. If it becomes you, tell me why you need these documents of the bank. Do you intend to rob it?"

Sherlock roled his eyes. " What other reason would I have for this. Obviously I'm not donating to charity. Yes, I have been put in a tricky situation which requires the robbing of a particular bank valt. I have no out choice realy, and I'm on a timer, so if you could hurry up!" Maggie turned back to her computer and continued her work. " Business is business." She said with a shrug.

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed the darkness to take his brain only for a moment. How could he let this happed? This was his fault! If he had just stayed awake, he could have kept John safe. Now John was gone, and Sherlock was sitting in an office waiting on stolen bank information. He was better than this. This was not how it was supposed to be. John foolishly put his beautiful and confusing heart on the palm of Sherlock's hand, and he was supposed to keep it safe, not let it be stolen right out from under his nose! How could he ever trust himself again? How could he just pick up that little heart and keep on going? It wasn't right! And much as Sherlock wanted to be selfish and keep John for himself, if John was not okay with their situation, then he had to let John go. But on the other hand, if John didn't want this, this whole Sherlock and John, running from- or into-danger thing, he wouldn't had given himself to Sherlock in the first place. Sherlock was deeply confused, but he pulled himself out of the black and back onto the land of people. 

At that moment, an internal timer went off in Sherlock's mind. He glanced up at the clock and found himself correct. Hour one was up, it was now eight o'clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am currently out of the country and the place where I am staying has shitty Wi-Fi, so I apologize for taking so long to update chapters. It will be a while before I can post the next one for this reason. 
> 
> I would like to thank, narutoluvr9, inuchimera7410, and patrissha for giving me kudos! 
> 
> Please comment and like my fic, I am new to Archive and would love the support!


	3. Hour 2

"Done" Maggie announced, turning her body to face Sherlock. One soft strand of warm brown hair fell delicately out of the bun that held the rest of her hair at the back of her head." Just give me a mo and I'll have the floor plan printed out for you." Sherlock snapped out of his inward thoughts with these words. He felt a slight, faintly sparkling urge to say some words of thanks to this woman, however he instead said something quite different.

"I do not owe you any thanks seeing as I have done you favors in the past and you owe this to me, but I will say that I am pleased that you can get me what I need in such a short amount of time." Sherlock said this truthful statement in a way that could almost be called thanks. Maggie shrugged and smiled dryly.

"Your attitude towards life is refreshing. I get boared of common and over used terms of thanks. And coming from you, that's the closest thing to a complement I think I'll ever get." Maggie didn't turn to Sherlock after speaking these words, not because she was shy, but because at that moment her printer sprang to life, and began to print out the floor plans of the bank on blank sheets of paper. The printer made a hungry noise, as if it where devouring the paper, instead of printing it.

Once the printing was compleet Sherlock found himself in possession of three, slightly warm pieces of paper. The paper was small, and one of the three floors of the bank where printed on each sheet.

"Now" Maggie said, turning back to her computer. "I'll see what I can do for your vault codes. Is there any one in particular you are looking for?" Although it would it would be a lot easier if Sherlock could get the account code information for number 483, he knew that he could not bring any attention to that vault, so he simply told her that any of the private vaults would do. 

"Alright." Maggie said laying into her computer and letting her fingers resume their dance over the keys. Her fingers looked like they knew this dance, like it was as easy as breathing, like it was something they could do in their sleep, like it was their life purpose. Sherlock could remember a time when those fingers where dirty and caked with grime. When the only thing they danced over where alleyway walls.

Minuts ticked by in silence, the only sound audible was the clicking of keys. Sherlock gritted he teeth impatiently as he sat in the oversized leather chair. This was a waste of time. No, he corrected himself, not a waste of time, this time was obtaining him vital information, it was just going to take a while. He needed this private vault code if he was going to get near the vault he needed to get into, and he only had so much time. It was now 8:09. He needed to get out of this house.

Sherlock's skin began to ich with anxiety and a pulse of impatience rushed up his spine. He no longer sat reclined in the large chair, but rather sat rigid and up right, ready to leap to his feet when the time was right. Sherlock's toes curled in his shoose as he watched the seconds tick by on the clock. 8:10 , 8:11, 8:12. Sherlock's whole body was now tense with anticipation. Every muscle under his skin was stiff. If something didn't happen soon, Sherlock feared he might explode. To his luck, exploding was unnessisairy. 

" Here we go." Maggie said finaly, hitting the enter key with a flourish. "Private vault number 322 under the name David Hung. Account number 54298876, access code 2908." Maggie listed these facts out loud, and they where repeated to Sherlock again after the hungry noise of the printer had once again commenced and then abruptly stopped and one more piece of paper was handed into Sherlock's possession. The paper was cover in black numbers, some circled in blue pen, and others indicating other technological and unimportant information, where left unmarked. 

The circled numbers had small scribbled notes writen beside them, informing what each group of circled diets meant. They where in information Maggie had just relayed to Sherlock. Account numbers and access codes where circled on the piece of fresh printer paper. Sherlock folded the paper carefully and sliped it into his coat pocket.

Sherlock then abruptly stood up, and, with a knod of his head in acknowledgement, Sherlock strode out of the room, down the hall and out into the morning air.

The air was thick with the promice of more rain, and Sherlock duely noted this fact and filed this information away in his brain.

-Later, rain. 

But then again this was England, when wasn't it raining?

*****

Sherlock made a few necessary stops on his way home, none of them entirely legal. By the time he clambered up the steps of 221B Baker Street, he held in his arms: the outfit of a maintenance man, a maintenance man's tool bag which was soiled with oil and grime, and the keys to a maintenance man's company car. Inside the maintenance man's tool bag where 7 small, timed, explosives and 5 small clips that were used to deactivate power lines. Sherlock had obtained these item with the help of an old friend whow also owed him a favor. 

Sherlock, once sitting at his desk in his dimly lit sitting room, spred out the floor plans of the bank that he had gotten from Maggie, and proceed to store them in his mind palace. Every room, every air duct, every water pipe, every door with a security lock, they were all stored un his hard drive and saved for later. He checked his mobile for the time. 8:34, he had 6 hours and 26 Minuts. Time was of the essences. He needed to leave the house soon and go to the bank .

Sherlock realized that there were still some more preparations to do before he could leave but he wanted to get something out of John's room before he forgot. Sherlock mounted the stairs and quickly ran up to John's bedroom. He entered into the warm feeling room for the second time that day and an unexpected well of sadness came over him. His beautiful John was missing from this house. Not only 221B, but 221A and C felt empty without John's presence. It was like someone took The Queen out of England and expected things to go on as usual. It wasn't going to work. 

Sherlock crossed the warm feeling room and as he did it the smell of John made a small bullet hole in his chest. Sherlock could pull apart the smell, pick out every single sent, but it wasn't the same. He could smell the hand sanitizer from the hospital John worked at. But hand sanitizer wasn't the same any more. It never would be. It was always John. It hurt Sherlock to be in this place. To be here when John wasn't, it felt wrong.

Sherlock intended to do what he needed to do quickly. He needed John's gun, which was kept in one of John's dresser draws. He had tampered with his own gun to improve it's efficiency, and Mycroft had confiscated because it was "unsafe." 

So now he aproached John's dresser and rifled through the draws searching for John's fire arm. He constantly moved the gun to different draws, even though he knew it would do nothing to prevent Sherlock from finding it. Sherlock really needed to find it. He went from drawer to drawer, not taking the time to deduce which draw John would have logicly stored it in. John defied all logic, and now was not time to hypothesize. But as Sherlock dug through the draws he stumbled across something the had never seen before.

It was a photo album, and an old one too. The mildew stains on the cloth binding suggested storage in a damp area. The fact that Sherlock and never found it before (and Sherlock frequented John's room quite often) suggested that John had recently retreaved it from this storage recently. Sherlock took the photo album in his pale hands and flipped open the first page. In the picture was a pregnant woman, one who bore a striking resemblance to John. Sherlock, who had never been told much about John's past flipped through the next few pages frantically, desperate for the information that he had been deprived all these past years. 

He stopped at a picture of a young boy sitting at a table, blond hair not yet fully covering his young head. In front of the child was a small cup cake with a thin candle planted in the middle of the icing. Beside the picture a capton was write in sleek hand-writing.

"John's fist birthday" 

So this was Johns child hood. It looked cheerful thus far. But what driven John to join the army? Why had such a well loved child felt the need to prove his masculine streak, or his pride for his country? This had been yet another of John's self contradicting riddles. Sherlock could not even begin to understan the way a child feels a connection to his family or why, but he knew what it was like to have something to prove. He had always lived in Mycroft shadow. Was it the same for John and Harry?

Sherlock flipped further into the book, just skimming until something caught it's eye. What caught his eyes was a picture of John, who Sherlock guessed to be around 10, sitting on a wet swing in a yard. Sherlock couldn't be sure, but he could swear he saw the faint ring of a black eye, on Johns young, innocent face. Sherlock's stomach dropped at the though of John suffering the bullying and taunting that he himself had suffered as a child. In the pages that followed there was no doubt that something was hurting the sweet 10 year old child. The light had left his eyes and his smiles where half hearted. Then there was a picture, and John had a broken arm. Even in the photo, Sherlock could calculate that the brake didn't come from a fall. It was too high up on the Ulna. Someone had forced this break, some one had done it on purpose.

The thought made Sherlock's blood boil, but wasn't that what was happening to John now? In one sickening moment that felt like the ink of Sherlock's life was running off the page, Sherlock snapped back into reality and relized he was waiting time. Time that his John was being hurt in, the light in his eyes was going out. Sherlock snapped the album shut and returned it to its original hiding place. Five minutes later Sherlock emerged from the room with John's gun, and a pit in his stomach that felt like it was widening every minute.

*****

Sherlock was ready to put the first part of his plan into action. He stood in the sitting room, dressed as in ill-fitting maintenance mans clothes, with the company's insignia imbroidered on a pocket at the top left of the black, oil stained, jump suit. In his hand was the tool bag that contained a collection of small explosives. He had a specific company vehicle parked outside on baker street waiting for him, and he had John's gun tucked into the instep of his borrowed work boots.

He was about to walk out the door when Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door frame. 

"Oh Sherlock" she said flatly. "What are you up to now?" When Sherlock didn't answer she continued. "Well what ever it is, please don't get that oil in my wall paper. Do you know where John is?" "Why?" Sherlock asked. He was hesitant to tell Mrs. Hudson the truth lest she go into some unnecessary fit of squealing. 

"Well I wouldn't mind, but he.... well he was going to teach me to play Russian Roulette." Mrs. Hudson bowed her head Sheepishly. Sherlock, who had been studying the dirt on the door frame, snapped around and, in one breathtaking instant, began to laugh. The sides of his mouth spread wide and he let his laugh fall out of him, like a river over waterfall. This progression concerned Mrs. Hudson more than the workman's suit

When Sherlock recovered his composure, he took a deep breath, looked Mrs. Hudson in the face and said "Of corse he was Mrs. Hudson. Of corse John was going to teach you Russian roulette. It's very fitting." He gave a little smirk. And it was. John the Dare Devil, the Adrenaline Junkie, was going to teach a 80-something year old woman to play Russian fucking Roulette. 

Sherlock found no thrill in the game because the odds where too low, and gravity was a scientific factor that would effect the outcome of the game. If the weapon was properly maintained and it was a swing out cylinder revolver, the one of six chambers that was loaded with the bullet would be more heavy then the other five, therefore when the cylinder was spun, the heaviest chamber would fall to the bottom. Therfore when the barrel was placed to the players skull, the chamber would not be loaded. 

" Why is it fitting?" Mrs.Hudson asked curiously. "Because, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock's baritone voice grumbled. "Because John went and got him self kidnapped, well it was sort of my fault, and now I have to got through hell's half acer, to get him back." Mrs. Hudson looked worried. "Well, let me help you Sherlock! Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm useless." Mrs. Hudson said imploringly. Sherlock grudgingly thought of what she could do. She would be a good destraction, a decoy of some sort. Sherlock's face was stone as he thought of how Mrs. Hudson could be of service.

Finally he looked down into the eyes of the his old land lady and said. "Mrs. Hudson, I need your help to rob a bank." At first Mrs. Hudson was as white as a sheet, then her face turned into hard set resolve. "If it helps you get that boy back, then off corse I'll help. You too boys need each other. You where so quiet before John was here." Sherlock's lips turned up in the corner ever so slightly, and he though of what John would say. Sherlock could picture him standing here. His face turning slightly blushed, the nervous shuffle of his feet, the way he clenched and un-clenched his hands. Then the words would come. Those three words he said so often that they had almost lost there meaning.  
"Seriously Mrs. Hudson, I'm not gay." 

Sherlock's heart gave a little pang. He needed John. He needed to get him quickly. He looked at Mrs. Hudson and said. "I'll be back within the hour. Be ready to leave. And wear a big hat." The tall consulting ditective strode towards the door. Just before he went down the stairs he checked the time on his mobil. 8:59 it said. Hour two was up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to post this chapter. I had some Internet problems but they are sorted out now.
> 
> I would like to thank all the visitors who gave my work kudos.
> 
> Again I apologize for keeping anyone waiting. 
> 
> Thanks for the support!


	4. Hour 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am EXTREEMLY sorry for the delay with this update. But shit happens sometimes, right? Life got really busy, really fast. I apologize.  
> I hope you like this installment. Please leave comments. Tell me how I did. I look forward to the criticism. Leave kudos, and support me, and I'll keep writing:)

Sherlock's heart sank when he relized the hour had struck. It was 9 o'clock. He had hours. It wasn't that bad, not really. He could do this. He was Sherlock Holmes, of corse he could do it. That's when his mobile buzzed in his wool coat pocket. Standing at the top of the stairs, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and and found a single text from an unknown number. The same unknown number that had stolen John. Sherlock opened the message and found a picture, with the single, bone chilling caption. 

"Ready or not?"

The picture was equally awful. The picture was of a human foot, tan from the Afghanistan sun, although Sherlock wondered how, seeing that it had been years since John's skin had felt anything other that the weak British sun. But that wasn't what made it awful. What made it awful was the image of blood and torn skin on Johns lovely foot. A metal clamp, like one you would use in wood carving to hold things in place, was secured around John's foot. The metal screw that made the clamp hold still had broken the surface of John's flesh and it looked like it would go deeper. Blood and torn skin streaked up the thick metal screw, and sherlock could tell that soon it would break bone.

A trickle of hot anger ran down Sherlock's spine. It wasn't a wave that hit him suddenly. It was a repetitive dripping on his skin, slowly bringing him up to boiling point. He heard rather than flet his breathing quicken. A muscle in his face twitched, but other than that he was completely still. Not one part of him moved. Not one.

Sherlock heard his heart thump in his ears. This was not okay. Someone was hurting John. That was not okay. Okay. John used the word a lot. I could mean anything from "Oh my god Sherlock you almost died. Are you hurt" to "Jesus why are you so angry, did something happen?" Now the only word sherlock could think of was Okay. He was not Okay. John was not okay. Something was wrong. NOTHING WAS OKAY.

Minutes ticked by and only two words fluidly came to Sherlock's mind. John. Okay. John was not okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. John. John was not okay. Okay. Okay. The words started to sound distorted in his brain. Ohkaye. Ohkaye. Ohkaye. That's when it started to hurt. The words broke something. Something in his mind palace. Something that had been shut for a long time. Was it an emotion? A state of mind? Sherlock couldn't tell, but he knew he had locked it away for a reason. It was crippling, the pain. A Dull ache that was amplified to bone cracking pressure. He needed to lock this back up. He would not be able to function with it demanding his attention. Slowly he breathed . Slowly he forced the word out of his head. Okay. Okay. Oka. Oka. Ok. Ok.........And with all the will power he had, he slowly breathed , and slowly forced that bone splitting pain back into the box it had been kept in. It had been a good box. There.

With his mind palace repaired, Sherlock took a few deep breaths, found his composure, and walked out of 221b Baker street and into the bleak Autumn sun.

Sherlock extracted a set of keys from the pocket of his oily costume, and aproached his borrowed company car. He loaded his gear into the passenger seat and then climbed in the drivers side. Sherlock did not often drive, but he could do it well and in a few minutes he was we into the thick of London traffic. Just as the traffic slowed to a crawl Sherlock turned into the small lane way that led to the back gate bank security check. 

As the large service truck rolled down the small lane, automatic security cameras were trained on vehicle. At the end, the lane opened up into a small parking lot. This was where money shipments where sent and recived, and to Sherlock's aid, this was the service entrance.

Sherlock was not sure what level of security would be guarding the door, but he knew something would be there. When he reached the place where the lane turned into a parking lot, Sherlock found a vehicle security check point. In the small security booth sat a heavy man, who's jowls wobbled when he spoke and was far more concerned about the dirt under his finger nails then the cars that came in and out of this area. The man looked up at Sherlock and read advertising sticker on the company car. This seemed like enough identification to the gard. The man went back to picking at his nails. Sherlock drove on. 

Once in the parking lot, Sherlock assesed the situation. The back entrance was garded with a full body scanner. Sherlock would need to deactivate that. There was also a security camera. He doubted anyone was watching the footage at that moment, but just incase he put on the tacky company ball cap that came with the uniform to cover his face. Things looked pretty simple. He pulled the keys out of the car's egnition and slung his grimy bag of magic tricks over his sholder before exiting the vehicle. 

Sherlock nonchalantly walked across the wet parkinglot. He aproached the security scanner and set to work on his first task. Sherlock took a screwdriver out of his work bag and opened up the pannel on the side of the full body scanner. Once the meatal pannel was removed he fished through the mess of coloured wired for the one wire he needed. He found the voltage transformer at the base of the open slat and traced a pine geeen wire to another box where it disappeared. From there he followed a white wire to where it met a blue one. On this wire he placed on of the small clips from inside his bag. This clip was meant to cut electricity to the scanner.The clip made a small beeping sound and the red lights along the side of the scanner went dead. Sherlock quickly replaced the metal panel with his screwdriver and zipped up his bag. He then walked through the security scanner with his bag full of bombs and into the back halls of the bank. Step one was accomplished. 

The next step was going to take a little more time. Sherlock must find the head of security and learn the password to the security maintenance room. The room was secured with a simple metal key-panel, but if Sherlock entered the wrong code, the bank would go into lockdown. Sherlock had considered putting on a 'bad guy' face and holding a gun to the manager's head, but then he remembered the rules from John's captor. No one can know until after it's done. And plus, this was only phase one. Sherlock still had to return to Baker street and get Mrs. Hudson. So Sherlock had to play by the rules.

Twenty agrevatingly slow minutes went by that Sherlock filled with pretending to check water tanks and piping. There was not sign of the manager. He paced the halls for a little while, familiarizing himself with the area. It was now 9:41. Sherlock was becoming anxious. Incredibly anxious. Thoughts of the picture Sherlock was sent earlier that morning presented themselves to Sherlock frequently. He pushed them back down, along with the bile that rose to the back of his throat with this thought.

More waiting. Sherlock went into the brake room with the thought they perhaps he might be getting an extra cup of coffee. Sherlock had mover on from anxious to impatient. He need to find this manager, and he needed to find this manage now. Sherlock had lost all hope of quietly obtaining the Passcode. Quite frankly he was just going to ask for it. With good reason, of corse. However it was now 9:48 and he needed to find this man. He now set out on a bold mission to find him. No more waiting around for this dim wit to come. Sherlock was going to find him, damn it.

Sherlock walked out of the break room and down a hallway to the left. He had very little time to spare and this manager was waiting his time. Then at the end of the hall- he saw a person. Ohh than God for that person. Sherlock walked briskly down the hall to the man...or woman? Yes this was a woman. A woman would make things so much easier. Sherlock put on his most charming smile- and wow that was one powerful smile- and casually aproached the woman.

The woman was dressed in a pair of black slacks and a cream coloured button up shirt. The shirt was undone one button too low, giving sherlock full few of her stunning cleavage. Sherlock averted his eyes. Totally not interested. She had her dirty blond hair knotted in a bun and her fingers where nicely manicured. Nicotine stained the tips of her fingers - a smoker. She had a wedding ring and an engagement ring on a silver chain that hung around her neck - she was pregnant. Sherlock had gathered all the information he needed about this woman, so he looked her in the eye with his most charming smile and said. "Hullo, I'm looking for the security manager, could you, by any chance, point me in the right direction?" 

The woman flashed Sherlock a smile that was equally charming and equally fake. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and then she said in a warm, rich, feminine voice, "Why darling, I am the security manager." She reached out a hand to brush Sherlocks coat seductively, but found that there was nothing to brush off. No lint, no hair, not even a tiny crumb. Sherlock never let his beloved coat get dirty. The woman scrambled for something to do before she decided on shaking Sherlock hand. "I'm Penelope Starter" she said with her hand outstretched. Sherlock took the woman's slim fingers in his hand, and addmited to himself that it was a pretty good recovery.

"So darling, what is it you need me for?" The woman smiled coyly. Sherlock did not pick up on the flirtatious talk. He was completely oblivious. "Well madame, I have a routine heating duct inspection to preforpreform, and I need access to the security room. It will only take five minutes, madame, but it must be done." The woman was momentarily offended by Sherlock curt manner, but got over herself quickly. She let her teeth graze her own bottom lip lightly in a last-ditch attempt to get Sherlock's interstate. It was no more successful than the previous ones. 

"Well, I suppose I could let you in, if I must. But I'm a very busy woman and I don't have more that five minutes to waste on heating duct inspection." The woman's face turned cold. Sherlock, took no more notice of her emotions towards him, because this woman was just a card trick. Sherlock had played that trick and was now ready to walk away. "If you could follow me, this way, I'll show you the room." The woman said curtly. And Sherlock was off. He was a fraction closer to getting John back. Just one tiny fraction.

Penelope led Sherlock briskly down the hallway, then turned into another. Sherlock visualized the hallways in his mind. Pulling the blue prints out of his mind palace and verifying them with the route this woman was leading him on. Everything seemed to be correct. Soon Penelope stopped at a grey, heavy looking door, and knoded with her head sharply toward the it. " This is the security room. I must watch you as you work for security reasons. So get to work! I'm a busy woman with not alot of time." Sherlock did not hesitate on her offer. He immediately opened the door and walked inside.

The room he walked into was meticulously organized. With neatly organized panels on the walls and two rows of organized electrical transformers which sat in the middle.The walls of the room were dirt stained and musty, and in the corner of the room was a table covered in computer monitors. One man sat at the desk and staired glassy-eyed at the screens. On the screens was live footage from all areas of the bank. The man was heavy and broad, with a beard covering his chin and down his neck. "Ah Jackson. You're here. Can I ask you to keep watch on this maintenance man while he dose a ..... er.....a routine-" "Heating Duct Inspection." Sherlock cut in dryly. Penelope looked at Sherlock as if he were the devil's brother. "Yes, a heating duct inspection. You will watch him for me Jackson, won't you?" 

Penelope flashed Jackson the same flirtatious smile she had for Sherlock. Jackson melted unter the gaze of the beautiful woman. "Y-Yes missus. Of corse missus." The man gave Penelope an awkward smile that he hoped was attractive. Penelope knoded her head in thanks and swiftly left the room.

Sherlock took a moment to subtly read the man in front of him. Jackson, as his name tag dictated, was a younger looking man with short brown hair. He had a good face. A face easy to look at, yet easy to forget. Sherlock noted that these faces made the best criminals. But from the anxious stutter in his voice, to the sloppy buttoning of his shirt, it was clear that this man did not have the intellect to be a criminal. 

Sherlock new this man. Well, not this man in particular, but this man's type. Sherlock knew how to manipulate these type of people to his own advantage. It was a skill he learned from Mycroft many years ago. This type of man was begging for attention. He thrived off praise. He had no sense of humour and took everything very seriously. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. This was going to be easier than expected.

Sherlock began to nonchalantly pace around the room, opening up the pannel on the walls and examining it's content. He lightly rapped his nickles on the side of the box of panneling, as if he was looking for a nose. This was to draw attention away from what he was actually doing, which was discreetly picking through the wires that the pannel contained, and finding the correct one. Once he found the wire, which was a small blue one. He reached into his bag and pulled out one of the small clips and clamped it on one of the wires. He flicked a button on the side of the clip, and it set off a timer. Sherlock had an hour until the clip did it's job, and released an electro-magnetic plus into the wire, Which would turn off the security cameras for a quarter of the building. 

Sherlock turned around to find Jackson staring at him, with no particular emotion on his face. Sherlock's heart gave an unsteady jump, but he pulled him self together, and flashed the most charismatic, and also the fakest, smile he had. Jackson awkwardly smiled back. " So, do you work on the monitors all day?" Asked Sherlock, who was trying to make convorsation, as a means to distract this, already quite cluelessn Jackson. Jackson's smile broadened as Sherlock moved on to searsh through the next pannel. " Yes I do." Staited Jackson proudly. " Nine am, to seven pm. No one ever gets past me." Jackson was beaming. Sherlock suppressed a scoff at the later remark. Sherlock didn't find what he was looking for in that pannel, and seeing that each clip cut the cameras to half the buildings, he reasoned that there were only three more to find. He quickly moved on to the next pannel. After a five minut search of the next three pannes, he found the second wire, quickly attached a clip to the wire and moved on. 

He patiently listed to Jackson ramble and drone about his security work. Sherlock, with a corner of his immense brain, asked questions to keep the mumbling fool happy, while he focused the rest of his brain on the task at hand. 

There! He found the third wire in another pannel as he walked along the second wall. He only had one left to find. As Jackson continued to drown on, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and checked the time. It was 10:03. John only had five hours left, and Sherlock was not even done preperations. 


	5. Hour 4

Sherlock wanted to panic. He wanted to shout. He wanted to get angry at everyone and punch a wall. But he couldn't. He didn't have time. John needed him to be strong. He had to work for John. For nothing else. Only John.

Inwardly he was having a battle. But on the outside, he was calm and collected. He didn't want to alarm the fumbling Jackson, who had turned back to his computer monitors and was humming quietly to himself. Sherlock had only one wire left to find. Things were going relitivly well.

Sherlock also could not understand how the idiot in the security chair could pass this as a "heating duct inspection". He was alarmingly think, even for Sherlock's standards. As Sherlock moved to the third wall to search for the final wire, Jackson sat there twiddling his thumbs. Sherlock was preparing to rob the bank right in front of the moron's eyes. He was quite baffled by Jackson's ignorance.

Digging through another pannel, Sherlock was tracing wires trying to find the one he needed. He followerd one into a voltage transformer then out the other side, where it was connecter through a plastic platform, into a blue wire he ran out of the pannel and to the braker. Her continued his search, and was about to give up and move to the next one when he found it. Bingo. Sherlock quickly placed the electro magnetic clip onto the wire and then turned around.

Jackson apeared to think nothing was out of the ordinary, because when Sherlock flashed him his winning smile, Jackson smiled his same awkward smile back.

"Well, all looks good in here." He said with causality. "Thank you for your company, Jackson. I have enjoyed our talk" Sherlock lied. Jackson beamed at Sherlock, and gave him a childish wave. Sherlock walked out of the door without another word to the fumbling security man. He walked down the hall with conviction. This step was over. All that was really left to do was the actual robbery. That part would be easy.

While Sherlock continued his walk, he began to think of his convorsation with John. It was all rushing back to him. The smell of John. The warm, but often questioning tone of his voice. The way he held his sholders, the ghost of army training still haunting them. His high held head, beautiful, yet un-observant eyes. And then the words. The actual words of the convorsation came to him in chunks.

  _I think on some screwed up level, you just complemented me._

    _Remember that " terribly illegal " thing?_

 _What are your limits?_  

Sherlock began to think about his last question to John. What were John's limits? The never ending problem of John Watson. So plain, but so different. So easy, yet so hard. Obvious but not. Predictable, but random. Sherlock may never figure John out.

But what were his own limits? Did he, Sherlock Holmes have any limits? But then he looked over his situation. He was in an oily maintenance suit on. He was an imposter. In a bank. He was robbing a bank. He was planting small electro magnetinc bombs. Why was he even asking this question? It was obvious. Sherlock had no limits.

When it came to John, he didn't have any. He had no limit to the things he would do for John. The possibilities were endless. There was next to nothing in the world that would hinder him for doing something for John.....if it was nessisairily. He had no limits. He really had no limits. Sherlock repeated these words over and over in his head. They gave him a new sense of purpose. With renewed and fire resolve, Sherlock marched towards the exit.

He needed to get back to 221b. He had things he needed to de. He needed to make sure Mrs. Hudson was prepared. He needed to get the plan rolling, because John had no other close family members. He needed someone to look after him. To protect him . And Sherlock was going to do it. He was going to protect John from the bad guys. Because, John was special, and Sherlock was.....well......Sherlock. He had no limits. He didn't know how to stop.

*****

He arived back at 221b Baker St in good time, then set to work getting Mrs Hudson primed and ready. Although he didn't want to admit it, Sherlock thought that the addition of Mrs Hudson to the plan was rather a good idea. Everything was falling into place, however Sherlock was running out of time. He was over half way through his time budget, and hadn't even begun the actual robbery.

Sherlock relized what an emotional train wreck he had been over the corse of the day. One minut he was confidant, the next he was stressing. One moment he was angry, then he was sad. This wasn't right. This wasn't natural. This wasn't Sherlock.

"Pull your self together." He chastised himself under his breath. "No more stupidity."

Just then Mrs Hudson bussed into the room, a loose, straight-cut, rose coloured dress hung from her sholders. A large, floral, wide brim hat blocked her face from view, and she carried an obnoxiously large, lavender purple, hand bag.

"Now, if you put the explosives in here dear, then I'll be all ready to go." Sherlock simply looked tat the woman for a minut. He loved this old woman. Nothing scared her. Not even human fingers in the ice box. Mrs Hudson must have guessed what he was thinking, because she looked at I'm with a mildly insulted glair.

"I'll have you know that this is by no means my first heist!" She said hotly. Sherlock found himself restraining a laugh. And it was a rare thing to make Sherlock laugh. The only other person who could do it was John.......John. Sherlock's protective bone snaped back into place.

" Well then!" He chided." If your so experienced then hurry up and get ready to go. You Mrs Hus on can drive your own car. I'll take a taxI. We canot arive together." And then Sherlock swirled around and strode out of the room with a flourish to go get his normal cloths on.

*****

    Twenty minuts later found Sherlock sitting in a taxi, his long wook coat once again hugging his thin body. He was on his way to the bank, for the last time. And, with any luck, he wouldn't end up using the  _advantages_ that came with having Mycroft for a sibling. But Sherlock new what he was doing. He was the world only Consulting Ditective for Christ's sake! This was child's play, really. I wasn't even like there was a problem to solve. He just had to follow some very basic instructions. He had the charm to win over the whole world if he wanted to. He could do a little simple bank theft. No problem.  Piece of cake.

    Sherlock looked out the window to see Mrs Hudson in her shiny red car, driving happily,  yet not altogether legally. She had her instructions. Sherlock had her repeat them exactly 23 times, to be precise. Things were going well, really. Nothing had stoped them so far, Sherlock would be damned if he was stoped now. So he gritted his teeth, and before he knew it, we was ascending the steps to the bank, with hardly a trouble in sight

*****

Mrs. Hudson was a very capable woman, and her old age did nothing to change that. She was fearless to, a force to be record with. It was a rare thing that made Mrs Hudson turn back on her word. So here she was, walking through the front does of the babank with a hand bag full of small explosives.

She saw out of the corner of her eye Sherlock entering the building, coat billowing magnificently around his ancles. His mess of curly hair windswept and unruly. Mrs Hudson smiled to herself. Nothing would stop that man from protecting his John. Look at him now, a genuine bank robbery under way, thrilling though it should be for such an outlandish man, he was not smiling. That gun that so commonly flashed in his eye was not there. The absence of John by his side had sucked it out of him. Sherlock was not doing this for fun. Not like he normaly did. He was doing this for John.

However Mrs Hudson had her own part to play in this. So she abandoned her musing and set to work. She saw the signs for the woman's lav on the far side of the long open marble floor. A long row of desks faced the center of the room, and Mrs Hudson watched Sherlock line up at one of these desks, just as she entered the lav.

It was a small lav. There were five stalls along one wall and five sinks along the other. Nothing special. Only one stall was occupied. Mrs Hudson enter the second stall, directly besidethe occupied one, and made a natural amount of noise opening and closing doors. Didn't want anything to look suspicious.

Because it is illegal to put security cameras on the inside of stalls -for obvious reasons- it was quite simple for Mrs Hudson to slip under the barrier and into the unoccupied stall or the other side of her. Once in the stall she removed a small bomb with a two minut timer and drone it into the bowl of the toilet. She had two bombs left in her bag. Not enough for every toilet, but that didn't matter. Quickly she slipped under the next barrier and started the bomb before dropping that one as well, onto the toilet. If she did it right there would only be seconds delay between the detonation of each bomb.

She returned to her original stall, to find the previously occupied one empty. She sloped unter, started her final timer, and dropped her last bomb into the toilet. Sherlock then returned to her own stall, flushed the toilet to make everything normal, and opened the door, to find the woman from the stall till washing her hands.

    _Shit_ thought Mrs Hudson  _I guess this one will enjoy the blast!_

Mrs Hudson estimated the seconds and began to count down the time till detonation. The blast came sooner than she had expected. They were small explosions, each one a few seconds apart, but they were also stronger than she had expected.

   The Cubicle walls were blown to pieces, and ceramic shards went flying. Mrs Hudson was nocked down from the force of it, but the other woman, who had been headed toward the door, was not. She simply shreeked a loud, high-pitched cry and ran out the door.

    Mrs Hudson was a little woozy. She looked at the water overflowing from the open water manes at the base of were each toilet had been. Water beads hung on the walls, and Mrs Hudsons greys was soaked. She lifter her fingers to were she felt a stinging pain, and drew her fingers away bloody. She looked down and saw a piece of ceramic sticking into her skin. This was perfect. Exactly what she needed. She pushed herself up, careful not to put her hands on any ceramic shards.

As she walked towards the door, a security guard came running in, and it was only then that she realized that evacuation alarms were sounding all through out the building.

" Oh dear me! The toilets! They exploded! I should have known. Matilda always tells me not to use the public lav! Now look whats happened! I've been wounded! Am I dieing? Officer please! AM I DIEING?"

Mrs Hudson put on her best "old woman" voice and pretended to be paneled and confused. The officer wrapped a consoling arm around her and escorted her out of the bathroom.

"It's alright, mam, your just in shock. Well get you looked after, Okay?" Mrs Hudson nodded weakly, but inside she was scoffing.  _This one's gone a bit soft,_ Mrs Hudson thinks to herself. She just hoped that things were going as well for Sherlock as they were for her.

                                    *****

Sherlock's plan was going exactly as expected. He has signed in at the front desk under his stolen name, and had been escorted to the room of private vaults, when Mrs Hudson's bombs went off. The all-access gaurd that was escorting Sherlock was personally called to aid the flocking croud of people exit the building. Sherlock pretended to frantically follow the gaurd, but the got himself lost in the croud and doubled back to the entrance to the vaults.

Now Sherlock stood outside the door to the vaults. It was electronically locked. But instead of deducing the Passcode, Sherlock had a more direct way of opening the doors. With luck, he electro magnetic pulses would have gone off by now. He belived it had been an hour. Sherlock checked his watch. 

His stomach dropped with a cold lerch, and his heard rate doubled in seconds. It was 11:17.


	6. Game Over

It had been so simple. It had been beautifully, amazingly, wonderfully simple. But then it wasn't. It had been a walk in the park, but now Sherlock was driving a stolen car with a bomb sitting on the passenger seat. It only takes seconds for circumstances to change drastically, and then your left, struggling to keep up. Sherlock had made it to the vault. A few small bombs and a couple passcodes, then he was there. But in the few seconds it took to open the vault door, all illusions of a easy recovery of John vanished. The vault had contained a bomb. A rather large and threatening one. Sherlock estimated it could take out a good two blocks of downtown London. Sherlock then had to fight with morals. He was extremely shocked to find that he had some. He wanted to get John back. There was no question of that. But he could not very well hand over an extreemly large and dangerous bomb to a criminal and expect that everything was going to be okay. He was endangering the lives of hundreds of people. So Sherlock sent John's captor a message.

     _I have the bomb._

 _-_ _SH_

   A picture of the bomb was attached,  just for proof.

 

    Sherlock then placed a short call fo Greg Lestrade.

 

" Hullo, DI Lestrade speaking"

Sherlock didn't bother introducing himself.  
" Are you on your way to the bank?" He asked

"Yes. But how do you know that, Sherlock?" Greg said suspiciously.

" Because I was the bomber." Sherlock replied, deadpan .

" You were what? Sorry Sherlock, but this has gone too far. Why were you bombing a public restroom?" Suspicion had escalated to distress.

" John's been captured. Won't be released untill I diliver the content of a bank vault. The vault was holding a bomb. So I'm now in on my way to an old wear house . The car I'm in is also stolen. The license plate is 167-542. "

" Bloody hell Sherlock! By law I have to arrest you. Why are you telling me this? I don't understand."

" Oh Greg do keep up. I'm telling you this so _can_ arest me. Well not really. Just follow me. I'll give them the bomb, they give me John, then you and Donovan come and arest them. You get the credit and you can blame them for the bank bombing. It's simple. I'll text you the adress now."

Sherlock hung up, giving Lestrade no time to argue. Then he forwarded him the adress giving to him by John's captor. Judging by the map of London in Sherlock's mind palace, he had only a seventeen minut drive.

Sherlock accelerated, pushing the car well over the speed limit. The faster he got to John, the better.

*****

When John came into consciousness, he was immediately aware of the blinding pain coming from his foot. His vision was blurry from sleep, but he remembered the image of shattered bone sticking out of ugly shredded flesh. That is what his foot looked like now. He was also dimly aware of the pain in his mouth. His tongue probed the soft area where his molar had been knocked out. He tasted blood on his lips and was sure his nose was bleeding as well. As a final injury John could feel a nasty bruise flowering on his rib cage. Whether or not his rib was fractured he could not tell.

As his vision became clear, John looked around at his new surroundings. He had been moved from the small dimly-lit torture chamber which he had inhabited for the past few hours, and now lay in a large, empty, Warehouse. He was on the floor, and as he made a move to sit up he realized his hands were bound together. The man who had captured him, the one who had taken him from 221B Baker Street, was standing close bye, with three men standing behind him. Two of them John new. The tall one with a bald head was the one who knocked out John's tooth. The shorter one with the muscles was the one who shattered John's foot. The third one he did not know.

The man who had captured Jon smiled down at him mockingly. The man was tall and thin, with greasy red hair that fell to his shoulders in oily strings. the man John did not know also smiled and said " Welcome back, Mr Watson." Is was a sour smile.

" That's Doctor Watson to you." John spat, sickened the foul group. John new he shouldn't have spoke. The two men John had seen before tow a few menacing steps towards him. John tried hard not to notice.

" You there, red head! John called up from the floor, to the man he could only assume was the leader. "What's your name?"

The thin man smiled another mocking smile and toched a hand to his chest. " My name? Well that doesn't matter. I have always found names excessive and unnecessary."

" No" John said. " I rather like names. Pleasure to meet you. My name's Doctor Watson, what's yours"?

The red haired man obliged. "Hugo" He said. " But don't ask for the last one because you won't get it" John was satisfied my this, but his mouth kept talking, as if it had a brain separate of his own. John new it was talking like this that got his tooth knocked out, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Okay Hugo, why don't you tell these meat-heads to back off. There awful close and their presence is making me uncomfortable." John new he had gone too far.

Hugo raised his eyebrows. " These meat-heads are my boys, you'd be wise to respect them. The only rule I gave them was to keep you alive. How battered and brused you get is beyond my control." He spread his arms in a helpless shrug, and that's when John realized that the Hugo was missing a hand. However before John had time to comment, Hugo began talking again.

" Boys, why don't you remind Dr. Watson what your here for. Prehaps the new scenery has mad him forget. Jog his memory, won't you?"

The two men closed in on John, who could to nothing to get away. They delivered John a few strong kicks each, which John convulse in pain. A loud cracking and blinding agony screamed in his for arm, his bone was snapped, and John credit out loudly.

" Allright boys that's enough" Hugo told his men. "It's just a reminder, no long term damage. "

John scoffed. "No long-term damage huh? Well why am I here anyway? These Meatheads never bothered to tell me. I know it's got something to do with Sherlock but I'd like to know what."

An bemused expression rolled over Hugo's face. "Your here on a... Ransom, per say. Sherlock gives us what we want and we will give him what he wants. It's not at all complicated. And he'll be here soon Dr. Watson no need to wait long. But hold your tongue will you, don't see how Sherlock stands it. You talk far too much."

John let out an abrupt, cold laugh. In was not natural in John's mouth. It was the laugh of a damaged man. Someone so far gone they're beyond repair. "The four of you are dead men walking. Done like dinner. If you honestly think Sherlock will let you get away with this, you more stupid that I could have guessed."

"But Dr. Watson," Hugo grinned and spread his arms, displaying his lack of a hand once more "He has no choice. If he doesn't hold his end of the deal, you're dead. Gone. And the four of us will live happily ever after. The end."

This didn't faze John in the slightest. Instead, seeing as he couldn't seem to hold his toung, he chose a different way to attack, well aware that it could cost him another broken limb. John couldn't stand bullys. There were few things he hated more. He couldn't keep his moth shut, even with his own safety concerned. If it was someone else's safety however, if it was Sherlock's safety, that would be a different story. But it wasn't, it was his own, and he couldn't stop himself from talking.

" It's a shame though, that there is four of you. It would have been so much easier for you to do this your self, wouldn't it? You could have done it all, and you wouldn't have to split the ransom with anyone. But I guess you can't, can you? Not without your hand. It's a real shame, really. How did it happen? Or is that not a topic you like to discuss?"

The moment he spoke, John knew he had gone too far. Hugo's face contorted in an ugly rage. His eyes narrowed and his mouth curled unevenly. With a slow and menacing walk he closed the distended between John and himself. John knew that whatever came next, it wouldn't be good. His blood began to move more rappedly through his veins, his heart quickening. However he took deep breath and refused to let his fear shoe on hid face. He even dared the slightest smile, only lifting the corner of his mouth slightly.

Hugo bent down. Crouched on one knee, he motioned to his men with one hand. The bald one came forward and placed a menacing swiss army knife in his hand. Hugo, still holding his uneven smile, ran his finger along the edge of the knife, looking at it as if it were prize gold.

John scoffed. If he was going to get in shit for his run-away mouth, he may as well make it count. "Oh dear god. Now your admiring your knife like a villan from a cleshè action movie. Can this day get any worse? Just get on with things, I'm getting bored." " Oh yes Dr Watson," Hugo said in a patronizing voice, finally taking his eyes off the blade. "This day can and will get worse. Let's just see who's smirking when this _villan_  opens your skin.

Before he knew what was happening, John found himself pinned down by the bald man. With his hands tied together, and his foot broken, John could do nothing to fight back. Hugo ripped open John's dirty cotton shirt around the v-neck, exposing a lightly taned, well built, upper chest. Hugo looked down on John, holding his eyes with a look of deep anger, his putrid breath reaching John in waves.

Then came the pain. John felt the blade of the knife slice effortlessly through his skin. The cut started just underneath where John's collarbone met his sholder, and continued to slice in a slow, parallel, line to where the bone met his sternum . The cut felt hot and sharp. John could feel his blood over flowing from his opened veins, slowly running down his chest. But he never broke eye contact. Not once did he look away from the torturous man. He showed no sign of pain. And just as Hugo finished the cut, John horked up some phlegm from the back of his throat, and spat it directly in Hugo's eye.

The anger in the ginger's eyes before was nothing compared to what filled them now. There was hatred. And loathing. And disgust. Like a demon just crawled out of hell and inhabited Hugo's body. Anger didn't even begin to discribe it. A cold tidal wave of rage fell off him. With a loud yell of disgust, Hugo brought the knife down on Johns thigh, driving the blade deep into hia flesh. It was out of an angry impulse more than anything else. The cold blade was burried to the hilt in the weakened muscle of John's thigh. And this time John did yell. He gave a sharp cry and twisted in pain. White hot agony shot through his body. It reminded him vaugly of when he was shot. Hugo roughly pulled the knife out of John's thigh and wiped his eye of John's saliva. Then, with a suprizingly precise fist, he dilivered an unexpected punch to John's head the rendered him unconscious for the third time that day.

*****

Sherlock pulled up outside the old warehouse. He took a minute to lock up all his emotions. Everything he had felt since he woke up that morning. Every Nuance of feeling could be detrimental to the task ahead. He locked away his sadness, his anger, his hatred. The disgust he felt towards Vermin that had taken away from him, that had to go to. His mind felt full to bursting with all these emotions. Emotions were sticky business. They prevented reasoning, and always affected the outcome of the situation. That would not do. Only logic would work.

So into a little box they went. All his emotions lined up in a row put into their little compartments and locked away. But Sherlock new the doors weren't strong, that it was only a matter of time before they burst open and all his emotions came flooding back to him, more painful and more real than before. Sherlock just hoped that the damn he put up would hold them for long enough.

Sherlock tucked a fully loaded revolver into an inside pocket of his long coat, picked up the bomb from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car. He walked towards the entrance to the warehouse, Sherlock was aware that a man watched him from behind. He didn't mind in the least though. No, let whoever's in charge know that he was here. He was in no mood for playing games.

Sherlock entered the warehouse to find four figures in front of him. The warehouse was empty, a good strategic move on their behalf, for if it came to the gunfire, Sherlock would have nowhere to hide. Three of the figures were standing and one of them was lying on the ground. Sherlock assumed the one on the ground was John. But he couldn't look. He was too afraid of what he might find. If that man on the flirtatious qas John, and John was dead, Sherlock would break. One look, even if he was not dead, would break the damn in Sherlock's head, and emotions -the on thing he truly did not understand- would over run his brain. Anarchy, system overload. A.K.A. Game over.

"Sherlock Holmes! You came! How marvelous." Said a red haired man with glassy eyes. " Dr. Watson said you would. But he also said that we were dead men. Is that true? Have you got some trick up your sleeve, Mr. Holmes? " The man cock ed his head mockingly at Sherlock. From the instant Sherlock walked through the door, he knew that this man was a psychotic mess. Obviously he he came from an abusive family, and he clearly had more than one extreemly mental disorder. Schizophrenia most likely. Why else would he have cut off his own hand. But clearly the meds -wherever this man got them- were helping. He seemed almost stable. But Sherlock knew he was not.

" I allways have tricks. I don't even have to bring them with me. There up here." Sherlock tapped his temple, trying very hard to ignore the limp for of John on the floor in front of him. Sherlock walked towards the red haired man, so that he was about seven feet away.

Sherlock took a breath before he started. " You were beaten as a child. You father was kind but he died when you were three. It was your mother who beat you. She drank too, she drank alot. Age 16 you were diagnosed with Schizophrenia. Went off the rails. Started snorting Crack about a year after that. Committed a crime or too, maybe a murder. Now your on the run. Running for a long time. You picked up odd jobs, but nothing like this." At some point, Sherlock had begun to pace. He was wlking back and forward in front of the man, never looking away from those glassy eyes.

" How much are you being paid? Enough to get out of the country? Who's paying you? Moriarty? No not his style. Must be alot of money on the line for you to get Sherlock Holmes involved. There's your biggest mistake. I'm deadly. To people like you I really am. I'm your worst nightmare. I'm a FUCKING LETHAL WEAPON!" Sher lock didn't even know he was angry untill that happened. He could feel the damn in his head breaking. He had a leak. But anger was an emotion he knew how to deal with. Acctualy, he knew how to use it to his advantage.

" And John was right, you are dead men. Because you toched the one thing I truly need. The one perfect human on this loud, noisy, plant. Do you know who that man is? Don you have any FUCKING CLUE? He's the calm before the storm. He has it all under control. He's secretly a badass but he doesent like to show it. He's more crazy than you are, and that's saying something. He knows when it's gone to far. He's the buffer between this world and hell. He's what keeps humanity in one piece. But more importantly. More imprtant than all those things together, he's mine. MINE. And when I'm through with you, Hell will look like a good fucking alternative. "

For a moment there was dead silence. You could hear a pin drop. The red haired man was clearly taken aback, perhaps a little afraid, but he regained his composure quickly.

"Well then Mr. Holmes. You better work your tricks quickly. I don't know how much time Dr. Watson has left."

Sherlock's heart stopped. Sherlock's brain stopped. Everything stopped. The world was frozen around him in excruciating stillness. A loud ringing filled his ears. A high pitched white noise. The shrill frequencies numbing his mind. The only thing he could think of were those last words. The played on repeat in his head like a parasite.

  _I don't know how much time Dr. Watson has left_

_I don't know how much time Dr. Watson has left._

_Dr. Watson_

_Dr. Watson_

_Dr. John Watson_

_John Watson_

_John Watson_

_JOHN._

 

Sherlock's world went from frozen to spinning in a split second. He remembered John. John on the floor. Dieing John. And suddenly that's all that mattered. The world was moving round and round in circled. To fast to focus. Nothing made sense. Sherlock turned his head and for the first time looked at John's unconscious for. And then the damn broke. All those emotions. All those feelings. Everything that had been put away, came spinning into fruition. John was the only fixed point. The whole world was spinning, but John was still.

But there was blood. Oh so much blood. Sherlock saw the scabbed blood, broken bone, and shredded flesh of John's foot. That made him sick. But then Sherlock moved his eyes to John's thigh. From there blood was freely flowing from John's body. It spilled onto the floor, escaping, running away from the precious doctors body. And that body was pale. It was cold and grey. Colorless really. With all his blood in the flood, John's looked like a sleeping zombie. The look of life had left him. Sherlock brought his eyes further up and saw more blood. A long gash that was half clotted ran along the doctors collar bone. And his shirt was torn and stained with blood. Oh so much blood. And now the blood was moving . It was spending words.

GAME OVER.

But Sherlock knew that wasn't right.

    _Johns b_ _lood doesent make words. It carries oxygen and things that keep John alive. Stop it. Your brains acting up. There are no words._

    But the words wouldn't go away. And it wasn't right. That blood was supposed to be keeping John alive. Not lieing all over the blood like expendable fluid. It wasn't right.  And there was dried blood under John's nose where it had been bleeding.  And his lip was swelling. And there was a nasty yellow brused forming of John's left cheek. 

 

In that moment, for the first time in his life, Sherlock's emotions were the only thing that controlled him. There was no logic. Reason and flown the coop. He was left with emotions that he couldn't stop. So Sherlock found himself kneeling beside John's body. He didn't remember getting there, but he was there now, and he must have put the bomb down because he didn't have it any more. His hands fluttered frantically over John's body. He finally put his hand down on Johns collar bone and tried to stop the bleeding, but then he remembered John's thigh. He brought his hands and put pressure on the wound. But the blood kept coming. Kept spilling over onto the floor. And it was escaping between Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock didn't know how to stop it. He he couldn't remember. And his mind palace was missing at the moment. He was panicking and acting on pure instinct. But that wasn't enough. Sherlock brought his hands away from John's leg , and they were covered in blood. Dark, red, precious, blood. And Sherlock didn't know what to do. He covered his own mouth to stop him self from screaming, the metalic taste of John's blood filled his mouth.

It Sherlock to realize the feeling of burning acid on his facell was tears. And he didn't try to stop them. Didn't even care. There was blood everywhere. A lover The flood. Allover Sherlock. But it shouldn't be there. It should be in John where it belonged. Sherlock throat closed up with emotional pain as he watched John slip away before hie eyes.

Sherlock remembered the convorsation he and John had had the night before. And then Sherlock knew that he did in fact have limits. Sherlock Holmes had limits. And his limits were John. John was his limit. A world with out John was not a world at all. Because he _was_ the calm before the storm. He  _was_ secretly a badass. He  _was_ crazyer than most people. And he  _was_ Sherlock's, and Sherlock was his.

In a moment of impulse. In a moment of sadness. In a moment of brokenness, and heartbreak, and pain, Sherlock kissed John. Kissed John good bye. Kissed him softly, like he was kissing him goodnight. A very long night. The world stoped moving. Stoped spinning. In that moment, everything was alright. 

As Sherlock lifted his head from John's lips, he wished that John would move. Sherlock checked John for a pulse, but his hands were too shaky to find one. For a moment, Sherlock swore he saw John move, just flinch slightly. But it was just his imagination.

From the inside of his coat, Sherlock pulled his gun. He cocked the weapon and pressed the muzzle to his temple. He closed his finger around the trigger. 

" Goodbye John" He wispered, before the loud sound of gun fire filled the empty warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please stick around for one final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has left this work kudos.


	7. After the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so so very sorry for taking so long to update. I really hope this final chapter is worth it. I would like to thank deeeranged, mossylog5, divine_angel, Narutoluvr9, inuchimera7410, patrissha, and all guests who left me kudos. This is my first fic and I am so grateful for the support. Please leave a review in the comments. I would love feedback! With no further adieu, here is the final chaplter

Sherlock sat beside the hospital bed. The sheets were an off white colour, the lights harsh and cold. John was is the hospital bed. He had been sitting for a very long time. Waiting, for a very long time. Waiting for John to wake up.

It had been ten days since the ordeal. The show down in the warehouse. It had been awful. Truly awful. Nothing Sherlock ever wanted to go through again. It made him slightly sick just thinking about it.

Sherlock was about to pull the trigger. End his life. Go to be with John. But then gunfire sounded through the building. For a moment Sherlock though it was his. Thought that he had pulled the trigger and that he was dead. But then he realised that you can't think when you are dead. So it wasn't his gun that fired the shot. And he was still sitting upright, not flopped on the floor, therefore it wasn't him who had received the shot either.

It was all over before Sherlock could wrap his brain around the situation. The red haired man and his men lay dead on the floor, small pools of blood slowly growing bigger on the concrete floor. Then Lestrade and Donovan were there. Sherlock couldn't remember how they got there. The whole thing was a shock. Sherlock brain was still frozen. But there was still blood on the floor. And that wasn't right. Not John's blood. The good doctor's blood belonged in the good doctor's body.

Then people were talking to Sherlock, but the ringing was still faintly visible, and the fact that neither himself nor John was dead made the stillness more unbearable.

Then John was in the ambulance and they were stopping the blood. That was the best part. No more blood. And Sherlock was in the ambulance with them. They made it seem like Sherlock wasn't wanted near John at that moment, but Sherlock had a secret feeling that they only let him stay with John so that they could keep an eye on him as well.

When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, John was handed over to the E.R. Doctors and Sherlock himself was escorted to a hospital bed by a nurse. No matter how hard Sherlock fought, the Doctors wouldn't let him leave the bed, and when Mycroft arrived, that bastard, he ordered that Sherlock be locked in a private room for the next twelve hours, to prevent any "dissapearing acts."

Once he was discharged, Sherlock spent every waking moment by John's side, and considering that Sherlock has an incredible tolerance for lack of sleep, that was vast majority of the next ten days. Now on the tenth day, for the first time in twenty for hours he left the room to use the lav. On his way back to the room he passed Donovan in the hall, who happened to be on the same floor of the hospital because she was questioning a suspect of another murder. Donovan who had always despised Sherlock, didn't flash him a dirty look as he walked by. On the contrary, she gave him a small smile and stopped him in the surprisingly deserted hall. To even further Sherlock's surprise, She blushed slightly.

"Uh.... Sherlock... I.... Uh..... I just wanted to apologise." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unsure what she was referring to. " For... for insulting your humanity. Not for the sanity part, I still think you mad, barking mad, but I'm sorry for calling you a creep... and inhuman. You see I genuinely believed it. I though that you were a sick son of bitch, getting off on murders and crime scenes. But then I saw you back at the warehouse, ready to give your life away, and your incredible mind with it. All for the sake of a man, the love of another human being. And that made me realise that you really are just a high functioning sociopath, who by some miracle found the one person on this plaint who could love him despite it." This seemed to remind Donovan why Sherlock was in the hospital to begin with. "How is he?" She asked, a note of sadness audible in her voice. "He will be fine if he wakes up." Sherlock said in a toneless voice. As much as he appreciated the apology for the years of scrutiny he had been under from this woman, all he wanted to do in this point in time is be by Johns side. So after a quick nod of thanks, Sherlock turned on his heels and headed back to John's hospital room.

Sherlock has not been back in the room for twenty minutes when the body in the bed began to move. It had happened, Sherlock's hopes, his prayers, came true. John's weak looking body gave a small moan and he shifted under the sheets. His hands twitched slightly, and his eyelids fluttered open to reveal hazy eyes. He blinked slowly, pushing away the clouds of his long sleep, fighting against the harsh hospital light. Sherlock's heart jumped to his throat and he stood at the foot of Johns bed, not quite sure of what to do. After so many days of waiting, it was hard to believe that the good doctor had actually woken up. John groaned again, then mumbled something, clearly struggling to form any coherent words. When he finally did form a word, it sounded like music to Sherlock's ears.

"Sherlock"

It was hardly above a whisper, but Sherlock heard it. The word sounded soft coming from John. Almost like John was saying a prayer of his own.

"Yes John" Sherlock replied, equally as soft. "I'm here."

Sherlock waited another minute or two as John got his bearings on his new surroundings. John made an effort to sit up, and Sherlock quickly moved to help him, stuffing pillows under his back and making him more comfortable. Sherlock was aware that a Doctor or Nurse would want to see John and give him a large amount of testings and check-ups, but Sherlock had been waiting patiently with this man for ten days, the nurses would get their turn later. Right now it was his time.

Sherlock pulled his chair up to the bed side, and sat down quietly trying not to assault Johns senses with too much noise. John rubbed his eyes and looked over at the tall detective in the chair. He gave a weak smile. His skin was still a ghastly colour. The I.V that had been replenishing his blood had not completely revived his complexion. 

After another couple minutes, John had regained more of his senses, and he began to make an effort to sit up. Sherlock quickly came to his side, propping him up with pillows and making sure he was comfortable. Once he was in an upright position, John, being the doctor that he was, began to take his own heart rate, and read his own monoters from where he sat. Sherlock quickly realised what John was doing and put a stop to it. 

" John, your the patient, stop doing the work of the bloody Doctor." John looked down at the off white sheets and began to pick at a loose thread. Sherlock though that maybe he had been to hash. 

"I'm sorry." John mumbled. " I can't help it" There was a moments pause, and Sherlock realised how much stress this had put on him. He felt it slowly falling away as he watched the Doctor come to his senses, slowly regaining control of his body. 

"How long has it been?" John asked, breaking the silence. "Since the warehouse? How long has it been?" 

" Ten days." Sherlock replied, his deep voice abnormally soft. 

"Christ" John swore, wincing slightly. "And.... have you been here the whole time?" 

"Do you honestly think I would be anywhere else?" 

John was silent for a moment. " I don't remember much-" 

" I wouldn't expect so, you lost a lot of blood." Sherlock cut him off. John rolled his eyes. 

" But there was one moment, I did come round for a minute, and you were there, covered in blood, I think it was mine, I'm not exactly sure." John screwed up his face, trying to remember. " And then.... Sherlock, and then you kissed me." This brought an uncomfortable silence to the room. Sherlock's heart froze. In that moment, in that awful, terrible moment back at the warehouse, Sherlock was finally forced to confront his true feelings for John, that bold army doctor. And in that moment, Sherlock had known that he loved him. But Sherlock was not prepared for this. He had not expected John to remember that part. The kissing part. In truth, Sherlock had not actually decided how to confront his new found feelings with _himself_ , let alone with John. But to Sherlock's great surprise and relief, John took control of the situation the situation.

"Sherlock..... Do it again."

That was all it took. In a moment Sherlock was bent over the Hospital bed, his lips soft against John's. John pushed into the kiss, feeding a hunger he didn't even know was there. In those moments Sherlock felt the tension he had been carrying for the past ten days slide away, a desperate desire for John taking its place. All the feeling Sherlock had for John, and god knows how long he has has them, were pored into that kiss. A burning that had no parallel. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. The two of them kissed like one was air and the other was drowning. Like nothing in the world had ever mattered as much, and in a way, that was true. 

Sherlock pulled away from John slowly, looking down into the Doctors eyes. John cracked a smile that stretched across his whole face, a grin that made him look barking mad. It was infectious. Soon Sherlock was smiling too. 

" I'm off to get a nurse." Sherlock said, striding towards the door. " You better be awake when I get back."

*****

A few hours later, John found himself being wheeled back to the flat at 221b Backer street in a wheelchair. Sherlock had not let a single soul, save himself, touch John's chair, fussing over him like their batty old landlady. When John finally made it to the sofa, he was exhausted. The bones in his foot were badly broken, but the doctors had said they should heal well. Mrs. Hudson had finally left, and the apartment was quiet. Sherlock came and sat down next to John, hesitant at first to touch him, as though he was afraid John might break. 

John new the detective well, new him better then he could ever imagine. And for the tall man folded up beside him, John knew the past ten days had been hard. John had had the leisure of sleeping and dreaming, while Sherlock had been sitting by his bedside, fretting and laboring at staying calm. And John, being the empathetic man that he was, felt sorry for him.

John turned to face the tall detective and looked deeply into his eyes. The usual outer shell had vanished from his face, leaving Sherlock open like a book. Sherlock was tired, the strain of exhaustion pulling dark bags under his eyes. The tall man was hungry, his face gaunt from lack of food. But most of all, Sherlock was relieved. Relieved to have John fully conscious, relieved to have him home. Relieved that John was not dead. 

" Come 'ere" John said softly, and he pulled the detective's head into the crook of his neck. Sherlock burried his face into the small doctor. John could feel the tension release from Sherlock. His whole body relaxing and becoming limp. There was a quiet that filled the flat as Sherlock began to silently sob in John's arms. His body rose and fell in shaky jerks, his breath ragged against John's skin. After some time, Sherlock pulled away from John's neck, and the doctor looked down into the tear stained face of the man he loved. 

With feather light lips, John leaned down and kissed Sherlock. It felt so good, so right, that it hurt. It was like electricity running through his body. Each brush of lips again his was a whole new uphora. Sherlock seemed forget his troubles in that moment. The two men got lost in each others arms, finding a new wonderland in each breath. In that moment, loving Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to the quirky army doctor. 

*****

Loving Sherlock only got better. Six weeks later, John found himself pressed up against the kitchen wall, his fingers entwined in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's hands gripping his hips with a newfound hunger. Their lips helplessly struck together, their clothing decresing by the minute. Belts, shirts, and ties were strewn all over the flat as the two slowly progressed to the bedroom. 

Soon John was completely without cloths, his body pressed against Sherlock's as the detective found his way inside the doctor for the first time. Time stood still in the moment. A million seconds of what could have been lost between the sheets. Fireworks were exploding like wildfire inside their bodies. Each touch dizzying. More intoxicated with each kiss. It felt like the two of them were the only people in a cold dark world, but each brush of lips, each thrust of hips, added a little colour to this cold, lonely place. It all fnished with a climax that exploded like a drug in their veins.

For the next half hour, John lay in Sherlock's arms, their breathing slowing to a regular pace, the red in their skin slowly subsiding. Neither of them had ever experienced anything like that in their life. As they lay in silence, they could think of nothing but the feel of eachother on their lips. Loving Sherlock was like nothing he had imagined 

*****

When it finally happened, it came from Sherlock first. It was Christmas eve. John was sitting on a cleared patch of the kitchen table, Sherlock kissing him with tentative lips. John had decorated the flat with red Christmas lights that cast a delicate ambiance through the room. 

"Merry christmas"John said as he rested his head against Sherlock's chest. The detective put his chin on top of John's head, both contented in the others imbrace. 

"I got you a present." John mumbled into Sherlock's chest. A low grunt of response rumbled from the ditective. "Go sit down and I'll fetch it."

John disappeared up the stairs to his room. It had gathered dust over the past couple of months. John had stoped sleeping in there, preferring to spend the night with Sherlock in his bed. John rummaged through his old closet until he found what he was looking for, a square parsle neatly wrapped in red paper.

When John emerged into the living room, Sherlock was sitting on the couch with his knees tucked up under his chin, his black hair a wild mess of curls. John sat down beside him and handed Sherlock the parsle. Sherlock took it begrudgingly, and began to meticulously take of the wrapping. When he was finally finished, he was left with a small cardboard box. Sherlock looked up at John in confusion. "Open It." John prompted. Then he whispered under his breth, "And you claim to be a genius."

In the box was a stick and poke tattoo kit. Sherlock face lit up with surprise and excitement. "Wait" John said before Sherlock got too carried away. "Only small ones. And keep in descrete."

In an instant Sherlock had whirled himself into the bathroom and locked the door. A pit began eating it's way at Johns stomach. He realised now what a supid idea this had been. 

Half an hour later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and found John sitting in the sofa, a look of deep concern painted on his face. John looked up to see Sherlock' s grin, a sheepish smile that a child would have. This simple smile melted John's heart in seconds. He loved that pale man's smile. The detective flopped down onto the couch next to him and curled up into a ball. 

"Show me" John said. Sherlock rolled back the cuff of his pajama bottoms to reveal two simple letters inked into Sherlock's pale skin. 

JW 

John Watson. John looked at Sherlock in bewilderment. "W-why?" He stuttered, looking into the detectived warm eyes. Sherlock's answer was simple. So beautifally simple that it hurt. Later that night, when John woke up on the couch, entangled in Sherlock's arms, he sighed and pulled the tall, pale, mistery of a man closer to his chest, those four beautiful words playing through his head. "Because I love you." 

Loving Sherlock was all that would ever matter.


End file.
